Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Struecker

“If by ‘an out’ you mean a valid deniability factor, then yes. It is his desire to remain above any conflict and its results.”

  “What does that mean?” Jose sounded suspicious.

  Moyer answered before the Major could. “It means if we kill El-Sayyed, the president can say it wasn’t done by the Italian military.”

  “Ah. This way we get blamed. Works out nice.”

  Colonel Tyson cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.

  De Luca closed his eyes for a moment, and Moyer half-expected him to click his heels together and chant, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Moyer pursed his lips to keep the corners of his mouth from rising. If the man was going to tag along, he might as well know what kind of men he was dealing with.

  “Our intelligence organizations have been monitoring Internet traffic using sophisticated algorithms to filter e-mail, blog posting, audio and video transmissions, as well as other key factors. The process is similar to what is used to monitor suspected terrorist cells. We have recently intercepted a video conference between a place on the North American continent and an area not far from Rome. We have, over the last few weeks, intercepted similar communications as well as e-mail directed to El-Sayyed.”

  He placed his hands behind his back as if standing at ease. “The transmissions are heavily encrypted. We cannot say where in North America the connection was made, but intel analysts suspect Mexico. We had more luck on this end. We have an address.”

  De Luca began to pace. “The Italian source is tied to a mansion in the country east of Roma. El-Sayyed’s plane is still parked at the airport and under twenty-four-hour surveillance. We’ll know the minute it moves.”

  “So what do you think El-Sayyed is up to? Is he using Italy as a base of operations?”

  “Sayyed has been in and out of Italy five times in the last two months. We have tracked the flights of his private jet in Europe. Naturally our ability to follow him in Middle East countries is problematic.”

  “But he’s here now?”

  De Luca gave Moyer a curt nod. “As of this morning. As to what he is up to, I fear he plans on bombing one of our historic monuments or churches. Working with the kind of extremist he does makes us think that he plans on detonating one or more bombs at a Christian shrine. Rome is the home to Christianity, as you know.”

  J. J. coughed.

  “Is there a problem, Sergeant Bartley?” Tyson’s question carried some heat.

  “No, sir. No problem at all, I just thought Christianity began in Jerusalem. That’s where the first church was founded and—”

  “Save the history lesson, son. We have more important matters before us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  De Luca tapped his lip, then continued. “Let me be more specific. Rome is home to the Holy Roman Church. The Holy Sea is here and is the center of faith for a billion Catholics. Rome is filled with historic churches and sites that would be a tempting target for Muslim extremists.”

  “Do you think they might try something at the Vatican?” Moyer asked.

  “Perhaps, but the Vatican is one of the best guarded 110 acres in the world. It is a country unto itself and under the complete control of the Catholic Church. The Swiss guard, who protect the buildings and his Holiness himself, are some of the best trained soldiers in the world. The Vatican also has its own police force.”

  “Yet thousands of tourists visit the grounds daily,” Moyer said. “We’re dealing with suicide bombers here—human precision bombs. What’s to keep one or more such bombers from strolling in with the other tourists?”

  “It is possible, but access to the most valuable areas is limited. Since we confirmed El-Sayyed’s presence, we have asked that the Holy Father be kept away from open areas, windows, and people who have not been cleared by their security. The Vatican has released a press report that his Holiness is spending time at Castel Gandolfo outside of Rome.”

  “That’s where the Vatican observatory is,” Rich said.

  Moyer and the others looked at him.

  “What? I read a lot.”

  “It is true. One of the two observatories run by the Church is in Castel Gandolfo.”

  “There are two?” J. J. asked.

  “The other one is in Arizona,” Rich said. “It operates in conjunction with the University of Arizona. . . . Okay I’m done.”

  “Bottom line is,” Moyer said, “we have no idea where they will strike. All you have is speculation.”

  “Speculation and the mansion where El-Sayyed has been hiding.”

  Moyer looked to Tyson. “So what’s our next step?”

  “You go pay El-Sayyed a social call.”

  That made Moyer smile.

  FOR THE FOURTEENTH TIME Delaram donned a tailored vest full of PE-4 explosive and ball bearings. The latter was a recent addition. Although she didn’t need to be told, they told her anyway: the ball bearings would become fiery shrapnel, killing and maiming anyone within a hundred meters of her or the other women. Not that it would matter to her. Once the bomb went off she would know nothing but oblivion. No doubt some of the women believed in heaven, but not her. She was a John Lennon philosopher imagining no heaven and no hell.

  The vest hung low on her, the rounded bulk of explosives resting just above her pelvis and pressing against her stomach. Once covered in a robe she would look like any pregnant woman in her third trimester. The irony ate at her. She would pretend to be a woman about to give life; then a button-push later she would become an angel of death.

  Delaram looked around the large basement. Two long worktables ran the north and south walls. In the center of the room stood eight women of various ages. Two looked to be no older than high school students; five were in their early twenties; one looked to be her grandmother’s age. Although their ages were different, their expressions were the same: bone-melting terror. Tears lined the faces of most. A few looked numb, their minds having shut down. Delaram understood. She had to fight to keep from giving in to emotional shock. It was a fight she was losing.

  Running her hand along the smooth exterior of the vest, she thought about the death resting on her belly. She would never know pregnancy; never hold a child to whom she had given life.

  Would there be children there? Would she kill them? Would she leave the “lucky” children crippled and bleeding in some street or building? Disguised as a pregnant woman, would she kill a woman truly with child—a woman with a mind filled with the great possibilities of the future?

  “You have done well, Delaram.”

  She cut her eyes to see the thickly built man with dark skin and neatly trimmed goatee with streaks of gray. Under the dim light of overhead fluorescents, the man looked jaundiced. She didn’t know his name, nor did she care to know.

  He set his hands on her shoulders, let them linger, then pulled on the straps. “The fit is better. The payload hangs naturally. How does it feel?”

  “How does it feel? It feels like a bomb strapped to my body. How is it supposed to feel?”

  He frowned. “Fear is normal, but you must remain strong. You are doing a brave thing. You will be a martyr. You will spend eternity in glory and—”

  “I’m not Muslim.”

  “Christians have martyrs too.”

  “I’m not a Christian either.”

  His mouth dipped toward his shoulders. “You are worse than an infidel.”

  Delaram chose not to respond. A stone would provide better conversation than this man.

  He stepped to the rack of clothing situated to one side and removed a maternity dress. “Put this on. I want to make certain the detonator switch fits the inner pocket.

  “Do you mean this thing?” Delaram lifted a push-button switch wired to the plastic explosive in her vest.

  “Of course.”

  A half-thought passed through Delaram’s mind.

  She pressed the button.

  CHAPTER 14

  DELARAM EXPECTED TO FEEL nothing. Not this scor
ching pain racing from her face, down her neck, and to her knees—which buckled under the impact. She lay on the cold basement floor staring into the lights above—lights that blurred and dimmed.

  “Nasser!”

  Delaram thought she was seeing the world through translucent, fogged glass, the kind used in bathrooms to protect privacy. A man stood over her, bent at the waist with his arm in the air. It took a moment for her to realize he was about to send a jaw-breaking punch to her face. Just as the arm began to move, another figure appeared. The punch never arrived.

  After several blinks Delaram’s vision improved and she saw goatee-man with his fist in the air, stopped by Abasi.

  “The fool thought the bombs were active. She tried to detonate it. She tried to kill us all.” It was the man Abasi called Nasser.

  “That’s why we take precautions.”

  “She deserves punishment.”

  “Of course she does, but not her face. A bruised and swollen face draws unwanted attention. She must look normal.”

  Nasser threw an angry glance at Abasi as if he blamed him for the world’s problems, then the mask of fury faded. “Not the face?”

  “That’s right. Leave her face alone. And remember: we need her.”

  A smile crossed Nasser’s face. He nodded, then kicked Delaram in the thigh. He kicked her again.

  Someone screamed. It took Delaram a moment to recognize her own voice.

  IN SOME WAYS MOYER preferred urban missions. He and his team were fully trained in traditional warfare, hand-to-hand combat, and some had been schooled in technical and electronic attacks. Battle had morphed over the years. As a boy, he had watched the television shows Combat and Rat Pack with his father. Those black-and-white episodes were his first introduction to the Army. His father never served in the armed forces, prohibited by a congenital hip problem. Still, he instilled in young Moyer the need to have principles worth fighting for. An extremely patriotic man, Moyer’s father imparted a love for country to his only son.

  That parental teaching budded in those old television shows. Growing up, he often relived episodes of a small band of men who fought Germans as they worked through forests and bombed out streets. At the age of eight, Eric Moyer became an Army man.

  Ten years later, and two months out of high school, he was sharing a barracks with other shaven-headed young men enduring boot camp at Fort Benning.

  Ranger training almost killed him. Long days with little to no sleep, living daily under a 90-pound rucksack forced more and more soldiers to drop out, but Moyer determined to persevere even if it meant he was the last man standing. The more difficult the training, the more he loved the Army. No masochist, he hated the pain but loved what the pain made of him.

  Then came tours in Panama, Kuwait, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Each mission gave him opportunity to grow as a soldier and a leader of men. Like most career soldiers, he came to hate war and love service. He didn’t become a soldier to kill; he became a soldier to protect people and ideals precious to him.

  Spec Ops gave him new training and a new way to wage war: small teams doing tactical, surgical work. Small actions often negated the need for major battles. Such was this mission.

  The satellite map on the table, provided by a U.S. satellite, showed a mansion surrounded by acres of open ground. The house sat by itself. Surrounding the expansive property was farm land. The nearest house was two miles away.

  “As you can see, we have very little cover.” De Luca pointed to the image of the home. “The house has windows on all sides.”

  Moyer stared at the photo. “We have to go in at night. Any idea how much electronic security they have?”

  De Luca pulled a thick roll of architectural drawings from a cardboard tube and spread it over the satellite photo. “These are the architectural drawings with inspector notes. Our building department is very demanding and thorough.”

  Moyer’s eyes drew in the details. He said nothing as he studied the plans. Finally, he shook his head. “The house is enormous. There’s gotta be, what, twenty thousand square feet spread over two floors and a basement?”

  “Twenty-thousand-two hundred. The CEO of a major bank in Italy built it. The global recession of 2009 did him in. He declared bankruptcy and left the country. The house went up for sale, but very few people can afford such a villa. The property was seized by the bank and they rent it to businesses for corporate retreats. It sits empty most of the time.”

  Moyer nodded. “The house is wired for security, and we have to assume that El-Sayyed may have added more.”

  “It would be wise to do so.”

  The door to the room opened and Rich poked his head in. “Trucks are loaded, Boss.”

  “Good, round up the team. It’s show-and-tell time.”

  “Will do.”

  EL-SAYYED STUDIED THE DIGITAL photo he had received over the Internet. He waited for the guilt to come, the remorse, the pity, but the emotions never arrived. No surprise. He handed the picture to Abasi. “Give it to the girl.”

  “Delaram.”

  El-Sayyed waved his hand. “Names are unimportant. She is still capable of carrying out our task?”

  “Yes. Tony took care in administering her punishment. She might limp some.”

  “Give her something for her pain. We don’t want her to think we are animals. The transportation?”

  “All is ready, just as you ordered. We can leave at any time.”

  El-Sayyed stood. “We leave in fifteen minutes. Tony will drive me along the main road and into the city in case there are eyes on us. My leaving will provide a distraction. You take the women down the back roads. Drive until you are sure you are not being followed. Keep your eyes turned toward the heavens.”

  “To Allah.”

  “I was thinking of helicopters, Abasi.”

  DELARAM SAT IN THE back of the Italian-made minibus holding a picture Abasi had forced her to see. He didn’t force it on her at first. Instead, he loaded all the women onto the bus then passed the photo around. Some of the women gasped, others turned away. The printed photo made its way to the back of the bus where Delaram sat, leaning against the window, trying to ease the pressure on her bruised thigh.

  She took the photo certain she could feel no more physical or emotional pain. In the photo she saw her mother sitting on the floor cradling her father’s head in her lap. His left eye was swollen shut and dried blood clung to his nose and lips.

  Delaram envied the girl who committed suicide.

  ALDO GRONCHI CAUGHT A glimpse of his image in the tinted glass of the police boat. His eyes lingered on the dim reflection. He was a vain man and made no apology for it. Tall, smooth dark skin, serious eyes, and a mouth quick to smile, he knew he was what the Americans called a babe magnet. He resisted the urge to pose for himself, tempting as such an action was. He was on duty, and the only thing he loved more than himself was his role as a captain in the Naples police department. Ten years on the job, he had risen quickly through the ranks. Good looks, good humor, quick wit, and unflagging courage meant he would climb many more rungs of success’s ladder. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he was Capo della Polizia.

  He would face no danger today. The task for this early evening was to analyze the ability of his men to patrol the Bay of Naples and the smaller bays that served as home to the hundreds of pleasure craft and yachts that plied the cerulean waters of the famous city.

  Gronchi raised binoculars to his eyes and scanned the many hotels that lined the shores. Blocks of commercial buildings and homes covered the slope upon which the city of more than a million people had been built. He was proud of the city and its rich heritage. Less than seventy years ago, Allied pilots bombed the city repeatedly until they had broken the back of Fascism. He thought about how things changed. During that same time, Japan attacked the U.S., bombing Pearl Harbor to the brink of nonexistence. Now Americans competed for Japanese cars. They also traveled to Italy by the droves to take in its history and charm.


  Such was the heritage that forced Gronchi to work fourteen-hour days for the last month.

  “See anything?” A young officer stepped to Gronchi’s side. He was shorter than Gronchi’s six-foot-two yet weighed considerably more.

  Gronchi gazed at the man. “Your green tint clashes with your uniform, Lorenzo.”

  The man shrugged. “I am not much of a sailor.”

  “Perhaps a little food would help you. I believe the captain brought sardines for lunch.”

  Lorenzo’s tint darkened, but he didn’t complain. Disappointed, Gronchi returned the binoculars to his eyes. “Did you make the contacts as I asked?”

  “Yes, sir. We will have our final briefing with the navy this evening at nine o’clock.”

  “Good. The sniper posts?”

  “All established per your orders.”

  Gronchi lowered the glasses. “Did you double-check the sight lines along all streets near the hotel?”

  Lorenzo nodded. “Several times. We can observe the entrance from ten different positions; street access from a dozen additional points. The hotel staff has been checked, and only those with the cleanest records will be working tomorrow.”

  “I want undercover officers in the mix: kitchen, maid service, front desk, food services, everywhere.”

  “The hotel will be empty except for the G-20. There will be no other guests.”

  “I know that, Lorenzo, but we will err on the side of caution. No one walks into that building without having his identification checked.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Gronchi shook his head. “Our careers rest on doing this right, Lorenzo. Allow no room for failure.”

  “The arrival of twenty of the world’s leaders to our city is an honor and a great reason for concern.”

  “I hear it was the American president who wanted the meeting moved here from London. I suppose the suicide bombing in London forced his hand.”

  “It is a wise decision,” Gronchi said. “The Brits are having trouble keeping their own backyard safe. Besides, Naples is small enough to make full security possible, but large enough to provide trained men and military.”